


The Fine Line

by Ferrenbach



Category: Gorillaz
Genre: Apologies, Conversations, Gen, Phase Five (Gorillaz)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-17
Updated: 2018-12-17
Packaged: 2019-09-20 16:21:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17026035
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ferrenbach/pseuds/Ferrenbach
Summary: Murdoc came back from Pantagonia with explanations and apologies, swearing he was a changed man. 2-D isn't quite buying it.





	The Fine Line

Murdoc found 2-D in the kitchen late at night. He was not looking for 2-D per se, but had thought the house unusually quiet and had wondered if everyone had wandered off to some party without telling him. Him! Inveterate party-goer and all-around networker of dubious intent!

Seeing that 2-D had not, in fact, wandered off to enjoy himself on his own made Murdoc feel better, although he could not put his finger on why he should care one way or the other. His entertainment certainly did not depend on the presence of others and it was not as though 2-D could not manage on his own, as pathetic as the results might be. 2-D had survived Gorillaz’s various break-ups without injury to life or limb after all, even if the best he could manage was to run home to his dad, bum about in run down apartments in the middle of nowhere, be swallowed by a whale, and then be coughed up in a sunny country where he lazed about on the sand all day.

(And put an album together, Murdoc’s subconscious gleefully prodded at him, although Murdoc ignored it and chose to believe Russel had been the driving force behind the band’s most recent venture.

Two albums, his subconscious reminded him, as if layers of synthesized sound could amount to anything, The Art of Noise be damned.)

There was no reason for 2-D _not_ to be in the kitchen, but it was not his usual domain. He stood at the stove, stirring a pot.

“What’cha got there, Dents?” Murdoc said, rummaging through the cupboards for his spare bottle and a glass.

“Cocoa,” 2-D said.

The clipped response bothered Murdoc a little. 2-D had occupied a strange mental place since Murdoc had returned from Patagonia and come clean about his arrest and subsequent escape attempt. 2-D used to ramble on about everything under the sun until Murdoc could no longer stand to listen to him and yet, since Murdoc’s return, 2-D had barely made a peep. He had accepted, seemingly at face value, Murdoc’s explanations and rationalizations, sunk back into his place as was proper, and…

Nothing.

2-D futzed about the house, lost in his own thoughts. He tinkered with this and that, watched films, and played with his phone. Sometimes he went out to Madge’s enclosure and Murdoc supposed he talked to her, although 2-D gave no sign one way or the other. He certainly did not seem any happier when he returned, in spite of being an animal lover.

“A little warm for cocoa, don’t you think?”

Murdoc had not intended for his voice to carry an edge, but he was unable to locate his bottle and, certain that someone in the house had drunk it in his absence, had allowed his frustration to slip through. 2-D seemed to view it as a personal slight, however, and stiffened a little in response.

“I want some,” he sniffed.

“Well, oh la la, your royal highness,” Murdoc replied, raiding the refrigerator. Finding nothing of interest, he sighed and collapsed into a chair. “What bee flew up your arse? You ought to just buy packets. Stove-top’s apt to scald it to the bottom of the pot.”

“I know how to make cocoa, thanks,” 2-D said. It surprised Murdoc that his breath did not plume in the atmosphere’s sudden chill. “Mum taught me.”

Murdoc settled in for a rambling story about 2-D’s childhood and whatever comfort he derived from cocoa, sheer sweetness aside, but the anecdote did not come.

His disappointment surprised him. He waited a few minutes in case 2-D was simply warming up his thoughts and, when no further conversation appeared to be forthcoming, took the plunge.

“Well, you’re in a mood.” Murdoc kicked his feet up onto a neighbouring chair and leaned back, resting his hands on his belly. “What’s gotten into you, then? You’ve been in a sulk since I got back. After I said sorry and everything!”

“You’re not sorry.”

Murdoc opened his mouth to protest, and then closed it again. 2-D was not wrong. In the prison sewer system, near to drowning, knowing he might have accidentally sent Noodle into a death trap, Murdoc had realized he had made a mistake. The same mistake he had made over and over throughout his life, pursuing spectacle and fame at the expense of others and, ultimately, at his own expense. He realized it and recognized the role his own hand had played in his failures and downfalls, but he felt no remorse or regret. What was the point of either? What was done was done.

But saying sorry was something that was expected, and so he had done it. Was that not how one admitted to mistakes?

“What makes you say that?” Murdoc said instead, still annoyed, but also curious.

“I know you,” 2-D told him. “I’ve known you half my life. You’ve never been sorry, ever, an’ you din’t sound any more sorry when you said you were.”

“A bit unfair, that,” Murdoc began, but 2-D cut him off.

“I’s not just that. If you were sorry, you would stop, but you dun stop. You say you’re sorry you put Noodle in danger, but then you put her in danger again. You say you’re sorry you lied and made a scene, but then you lie again.”

“I’ve only just got back,” Murdoc countered. “It will take some time to show that I won’t do something again.”

“I seen your interviews,” 2-D reminded him. “First thing you did when you got back. Sayin’ snotty things about me, all con… condense—“

“Condescending?” Murdoc finished automatically.

“Shut-up,” 2-D said. “I know what words are. It’s having to talk fast that mucks me up. You could give me a minute to think instead of interruptin’.”

“I wasn’t being condescending,” Murdoc told him, side-stepping the accusation.

“How do you know what you were? You’re not the one that has to listen to you,” 2-D said. “You say you’re sorry how you treat people and sorry that you lied, but then you spit on other people to make yourself look good and lie about being sorry.”

“What do you want from me?” Murdoc snapped, frustrated by his inability to fathom 2-D’s logic on top of his lack of drink. “It’s not like you’re Mr. Perfect.”

“No,” 2-D admitted, “but a’s not the question you asked. You asked what’s gotten into me an’ I told you. You pretend you’re sorry, but you’re not. You’ve never been. I’s just another lie and I… I am very tired.”

Murdoc snorted and shook his head.

“You’re SOL, then, mate,” he said. “I don’t know what you think you’re expecting, but you’re not going to get it. Am I really, absolutely, sorry? No. You’re right. I’m not. I don’t feel bad about things that are done and gone. There’s nothing else to be done for them. I’m not going to weep about it now or hide in shame. Maybe I don’t even know how to feel sorry. Maybe it’s something I can’t do. I still take offence to being called a liar. Maybe I’m not sorry or am even able to feel sorry, but that doesn’t mean I didn’t realize I was wrong. I made a mistake. It was a mistake to blow up the whole prison thing for fame. It was a mistake to spin yarns that would get Noodle in trouble. It was a mistake any time I did the same thing to someone else in the past. I thought I was doing it for my own good, but I was hurting myself as much as others. I know there are people who would say that’s just as bad, but they’re fooling themselves. Everyone works for their own good. It just turns out that the good of others is usually your own good, too. So I’ve made mistakes and I’m not sorry I made them, but I’ll try to do better. At least, I’ll try not to make them as often. I don’t know how else I’m supposed to say that without saying ‘sorry’. ‘Sorry’ is just the kind of word that people expect.”

“You say, ‘I was wrong. I’ll try to do better,’” 2-D informed him, turning off the heat and pulling two mugs from the cupboard. He poured the cocoa from the pot into the mugs and reached into the refrigerator for a can of whipped cream, adding a generous dollop to each mug. “An’ then you do. An’ you realize that not everybody’s gonna be a’right with that, an’ even those that are might need time.”

2-D carried the mugs over to the table and placed one in front of Murdoc, sliding into the chair across from him.

“The band wan’t the same without you,” 2-D admitted, “but I— we made an album without you anyway. I dun like snotty comments about how we— I can’t get on without you. ‘Better’ an’ ‘necessary’ aren’t the same, just like ‘wrong’ an’ ‘sorry’ aren’t the same. They’re close, but i’s important to know which is which.”

2-D paused in thought and Murdoc wondered if he should say something to break the silence, but 2-D spoke again before he could comment.

“I dunno if everyone can feel sorry or not, but, even if not, they ought to know when they’re wrong and to try to be better.” 2-D prodded at the whipped topping on his drink. “I’m wrong a lot _and_ feel sorry a lot an' I try to do better, but I’m not always good at that either. I’s hard to do, but i’s important to try.”

“And that’s all you wanted, was it?” Murdoc said as 2-D licked a smear of cream off his finger and took a sip from his mug. “For me to say I was wrong?”

“Not all,” 2-D admitted, “but issa start. We’ll see if you really try to do better. I dun want another Plastic Beach.”

Murdoc paused with his cocoa mug in hand. It was the first time 2-D had referenced the island since the band got back together.

“I dun have’ta do that again if I dun wanna,” 2-D continued. “I’ll do another album on my own, first. I know I can.”

“True,” Murdoc admitted. “Would have been better with me, of course.” He let the comment hang a moment, watching 2-D’s brow furrow in annoyance before adding, “In Ace’s part, of course. Yours was fine. Well done.”

“Thank you,” 2-D said, looking quietly pleased as Murdoc finally managed to take a drink.

“You say your mum taught you to make this?” Murdoc said, looking into his mug.

“Yeah.”

“She teach you to make it with brandy?”

“Only the winter I was eighteen,” 2-D told him. “It tastes better made with than sneaking some in after.”

“Not the brandy that was in the cupboard, was it?” Murdoc said, and then dropped his line of inquiry as a slow, malevolent grin crept over 2-D’s face. “It might have had a worse demise. Tastes good.”

“Thank you,” 2-D said.


End file.
